


I Want to Tell You

by faultyfriendofyours



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hurt!John, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, McLennon, hurt!paul, much like game of thrones and its dragons the comfort will come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faultyfriendofyours/pseuds/faultyfriendofyours
Summary: Kidnapping is never something you can anticipate. But that didn't stop John from blaming himself for everything. Regardless of his relentless guilt, he can't bring himself to stop feeling some level of bitterness towards Paul.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 46
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just in case you didn’t read the tags, this will be hella gay

**_Day 1_ **

_ 1966 _

Paul was exhausted as he drove down empty streets. The pink hue of morning light had barely graced the cloud strewn sky as he flicked on his turn indicator. Everything in him had told him to not answer the phone just an hour earlier but he had anyway. After a long night of drinking and only 2 hours of sleep, he couldn’t really tell what John had been on about in his call but he sounded frantic, to say the least. 

With his mind slowed by sleep, he searched himself for his cigarettes. He fumbled with driving and lighting his smoke for a moment before finally being able to take a steady drag. The nicotine rushed through him and he pulled for another hit. A semblance of alertness was trying to take form in his mind. He cranked up the radio to help it along. The station was playing one of their songs. An old one. Off the first album. He didn’t bother to change it. 

After a second cigarette was lit and he was almost to John’s place, his brain was somewhat functioning. A new Rolling Stone’s song was pouring through the radio. Something he’d heard just six hours earlier. It pushed forward his memory of the night out with Mal. He remembered it vaguely but fondly. The recollection was ushered away in favor of trying to wrack his brain for what John had said. Something about “hurry” and “I need help,” but there was no context to any of it that Paul could remember. Anyways, John had hung up so quickly he couldn’t have asked for clarification if he had been conscious enough to think to.

On his third cigarette, he pulled on to the proper road and arrived at a wide-open gate. He hummed at one of the wings of the gate, giving it a curious stare before going up the rest of the drive. He parked beside a colorfully painted Rolls Royce, snuffed his cig, and made sure the ends of his button-up were tucked in his pants properly. Eyes fixed in the rearview, he gave his hair a light tossle. 

When he finally got out, he didn’t make it more than a few steps towards the door before John padded out of the house with pajama pants on and Julien at his hip. His face was pulled down in a frown, the soft light giving a delicate tinge of pink and orange to his features, simultaneously highlighting his freckled chest. The little ball of excitement that was Julian smiled at Paul, giggling, and grabbing the air between them. 

Paul pulled on a smile and met John halfway to take Jules in his arms. As the kid pulled at Paul’s ear, he looked his friend up and down and found he was an absolute mess, from his hair to his missing shirt and single sock. He wanted to poke fun at him for it but there was a delicate tension he was afraid to disturb.

“You won’t believe it of him now.” John was staring at his child with amazement and exhaustion clear behind the black rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “But he’s evil.”

“Not evil,” Jules shouted in shock.

There was no holding back the burst of laughter that left Paul at the absurd statement. He felt the tension dissolve as he looked at John’s reluctant smile. “He’s three, John.”

“How many more years does he need, then, to be properly evil? Are these just his practice days?” John eyed his son carefully, leaning forward and scrunching his nose. The accused Lennon was giggling and babbling about evil pirates.

“Where’s Cyn,” Paul chuckled, peeking into the still opened door. “Your gates open, y’know.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“To close the gate?”

“Actually, yes, would you close it on your way out? Ta. See you at the studio.” John put on a mocking voice, waving for the driveway. “No, mate. Cyn’s gone and she’s left me with Jules.”

That sobered Paul immediately. He froze dead in the middle of making a mess of Julian’s hair to stare at John, mouth hung open. There had been arguments between him and Cynthia, sure, but her leaving and without Julian? That couldn’t be right. 

“She what,” is all Paul could manage.

The shock must have been clear on his face because John rolled his eyes and shoved Paul by the shoulder. “No, git. She hasn’t  _ left me _ . She’s gone to her mother's.” He wrapped his arms around his stomach and shivered. “Let's go inside.” The cool morning air was proving too much for his bare skin.

Something like relief, but not as calming, deflated Paul from his statued state. Julian, babbled happily, pulled at Paul’s fingers as he followed after John’s trail and into the kitchen. 

“And she left him?” That still made zero sense in Paul’s mind. He didn't think Julian had ever been left with John, all alone, for more than half a day.

“Obviously,” John said, busying himself with beginning breakfast. The tension between them was building up again, brick by brick. Paul needed to stop it.

He sat Jules down to run to his toys on the floor. There was no helping his fixed stare directly at John’s back. He surveyed his friend from the top of his head to the base of his spine before quickly looking at Julian. “So?” His eyes flicked back to John as he squatted down in front of the fridge before going back to stare at the orange toy Julian was fiddling with.

“So,” John drawled, “I might have told her I can handle him alone for three days. And she might have left last night. And I might have not slept at all.”

Paul gapped, no longer able to keep his eyes off John. “Seriously?” He thought John might take offense to his tone but he only sighed, turning to Paul, and draped himself over the square island Paul sat at. His cheeks cast newly formed shadows and Paul made a note to make sure John ate his breakfast too.

“Well,” John began, exacerbated. “We had a row about parenting and I wanted to prove a point and-”

“And now you regret it?”

“No! I- I just need some… assistance.” He pulled himself from the island and began to make scrambled eggs on a hot pan. “You’re good with kids, good with Jules. So…” 

“Is uncle Paul- Is, um, staying?” Julian mumbled out, his words awkward with young age and his focus on the fireman’s truck.

Paul’s eyes shot between Julian and John’s back. He noticed that John had stopped moving, spatula halfway through scraping at the eggs. Another brick was ready to be laid on the mounting tension.

“I- Well, I can, yeah.” He stared at the red-tinted head of hair, waiting for a sign. 

But all he saw was John go back to scraping the eggs, his shoulders drooping. “You don’t have to.”

“No, mate. Yeah, I can, um, stay the day… and night. Jane won't even be back for a week, anyway.” There was an awkwardness making Paul a little uneasy and unnatural.

“Really!” Julian perked up, dropping his toy. 

Paul turned to Jules and pulled on a big smile. “If your daddy will have me here. You might have to ask really, very, kindly, though.” He scooped up Julian and let him sit on his shoulder. They marched goofily to John’s side and Paul bent his knees so John and his son were somewhat close to eye level. “Well,” he prompted Julian.

Julian was giggling and grabbing at Paul’s hair. “Can he stay… please?”

John huffed a laugh, his focus staying on dividing three portions of eggs onto decorative plates that looked fit for a proper dinner, not an egg and toast breakfast. “Oh, if it pleases the tyrannical evil.” A smile tugged at John’s mouth but he still didn’t look at Paul, instead moving further away to put some bread on to toast. 

Once John had placed the plates of egg and toast on the table, pouring tea for him and Paul- a bottle of juice for Jules- there was light banter and talk of work in the studio and a new song. After a while, Julian finished his breakfast and ran off after a cat Paul couldn’t recall the name of. Silence fell between them as John stared at the seat Julian was no longer in. His eyes were soft and focused, a ray of light highlighting a fleck of green amongst the brown.

“You guys are alright, yeah? You and Cyn,” Paul asked, shifting his gaze to a cat laid out in the sun. He hated how awkward everything felt. It was maddening.

At the loud huff from his friend, Paul looked to see John had barely eaten and was only shoving his food around his plate, toast untouched. “I don’t know. ‘Suppose.” His eyes didn’t meet Paul. “Just a lot of fighting, ‘course. About touring… my whoring.”

Paul nodded, not knowing what to say. He realized John wasn’t looking at him and finally hummed a response before asking, “Aren’t you hungry?”

John shook out his messy hair, looking to Paul. “The kids got me a nervous wreck. Was crying the whole time before you got here.”

Paul had watched his eating habits deteriorate over the course of this year and knew it was more than that. “Well, I’m here now. Eat something, son. Get some energy.”

John took Paul’s almost empty plate with his to the bin to scrape out. “It’s fine. I’ll have a proper lunch.”

Not knowing how far to push it, Paul decided to not pry further unless he neglected his lunch too. He looked to his thumbs, twiddling them and staring at the tile. Julian’s laughter was echoing in the background, just audible over the clanking dishes. The two men stayed quiet as the dishes went into the sink and John didn’t yet turn around. Paul stared at his back, looking over the shadows under his shoulder blades and the flex in his back muscles as he stretched a bit.

John turned the faucet off and huffed out a deep breath that made Paul’s spine go rigid. “What if…” There was a deafening silence. John turned around, his hands holding the edge of the counter behind. The act defined his biceps. Paul snapped his eyes to lock with John’s. They only stared at one another. But something was off. It wasn’t like before. It felt forced and painful. John’s gaze broke first, leaving a coldness to shiver through Paul. “Let's work on a song, yeah?”

Music would be better, Paul thought with assuring resolution. That was something they could always fall back on. They could wash the wound clear with melody. 

The thought put a bit more pep in Paul’s step as he went to his car. Though he still felt stuffy. He unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt as he walked out into the cold. Popping the trunk he grabbed a beat up acoustic, damaged from all its travels. The instrument almost fell from his hands when a clashing bang of metal on metal cracked through the atmosphere. 

He spun on the spot, instinctively holding his guitar tight to his chest. Residual clanks sounded until it was barely an echo of a sound. Paul sighed deeply, falling back to sit on his trunk. A brisk breeze blew by, catching leaves from the ground and sending them airborne. The gate must have been caught in the same wind, forced closed by a stiff breeze. 

Finding his reaction a bit dramatic, he scoffed at himself. With little thought left to the situation, he closed his trunk and hurried back into the house and directly to the living room. The warmth was now welcoming and calm. 

John was not.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat on the couch without bothering to look up. His entire body was bent low over his guitar, strumming a note that sounded sour. His shoulders tensed while his hand gripped the neck of the guitar with bleach white fingertips. Moving his fingers to a new chord, he strummed gently. A breath left through clenched teeth before he looked up at Paul.

Paul, who was staring at him and not moving at all. He looked like a deer in headlights. John didn’t much like being the headlights. He raised a questioning brow that seemed to kick Paul into gear. A tight smile pulled at his lips, hands loosening and tightening around his guitar as he sat- not next to John but on the seat opposite him.

His usually soft features were edged with worry and unease. John wanted to feel bad but couldn’t make himself. They were staring at one another, wordlessly, eyes refusing to actually meet. Paul’s button-up was undone just enough to see his white undershirt. He pulled at the neck of it before going to roll up his sleeves. His forearms flexed with the motion. Their eyes didn’t leave one another's bodies as he did. Their lips did not move either.

“ _ Dad _ !” Julian dragged out the word, breaking the strange trance. 

John blinked, looking at his son. “Yeah?”

“I want to write with you,” he smiled toothily through his words.

John tilted his head to the side and smirked. “Well, of course.” Without a glance towards Paul, John scrounged up an extra pen and some paper from the coffee table. “Write a masterpiece.”

Julian nodded resolutely before plopping himself on the floor. John took his seat again and tried to continue his stare off with Paul. But he wasn’t looking. His eyes were on Julian, a soft smile tugging at his lips. His long fingers were idly plucking at strings. John traced an outline from Paul’s fingertips all the way to his face. The care in his eyes was too much and John immediately felt the guilt of being so cold. He had been the one to invite Paul in the first place. He wanted him here. Didn't he?

“Come here.”

Paul’s eyes snapped up to meet his. Confusion took over.

“I don't want to get up to pass you the paper if you’ve got a line.”

“Right.”

They fell into writing and John almost forgot why he was being so cold in the first place. There was a strong start of a song taking form, with Julian as their litmus test for what sounded good, when a clock sounded from somewhere in the house. There was no telling how long they had been in the living room. John had no concept of when they had started. 

But John had gotten properly dressed in that time and they had all ended up on the floor. Julian had his head on Paul’s knee, raising his hands to put emphasis on his semi-coherent babbling statements as he stared at the ceiling. John was pressed up beside Paul, a cat taking over his lap. Both their guitars were to the side.

Julian bent his head back awkwardly to find John. He declared his hunger and they all descended on the kitchen. 

John and Paul worked to make a decent lunch. They managed to pull together soup and sandwiches- an amazing meal for a three-year-old.

As they all settled around the table, John looked at his plate. He felt disgusted at the thought of eating- or more so the results of eating. It was only soup and grilled cheese and he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. It was okay to eat this. Maybe he’d only have the soup. That would be best, wouldn't it? He felt so, anyway.

He successfully forced his soup down and let Julian eat half his sandwich before clearing up the table. He felt Paul’s eyes boring holes into his back as he walked away. But he said nothing. So John said nothing. 

When he went back to the dining room, Paul and Julian were gone. He followed the sound of laughter floating through the air and found them both in the backyard. Julian, a ball in hand, was trying to run past Paul but he had his arms spread wide, easily blocking the tiny three-year-old. Paul was talking in a deep, gruff voice that made Jules laugh hysterically. 

John leaned against the doorframe and watched them play in the manicured lawn, surrounded by intense amounts of trees and shrubbery. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, though the chill of autumn persisted over its warmth. John pulled at the sleeve of his sweater as a thought overcame him.

A mischievous grin followed the idea and he moved away from the threshold and towards Paul and Jules. In a low crouch, he came up behind Paul and wrapped his arms around him, tugging him back a bit.

“Run, Jules,” He called out as Paul’s legs entangled with his and they fell into the grass. Julian didn’t hesitate, blasting past the two and throwing the ball between a set of potted plants. 

Paul ended up facing John, their arms and legs still tangled up in each other. Their laughter died into awkward chuckles. Paul felt warm and secure in his arms, his pretty eyes dancing across John’s face. It could have been nice, it should have been nice, but John’s mind was pulled back to the hotel and he abruptly parted from Paul, sitting criss-cross in the grass. Paul’s accusing shout echoed in his mind.  _ You _ . Harsh and bitter, choking with tears. The bone-chilling cold of the earth suddenly engulfed every inch of John’s body. 

John was partially conscious of Julian dancing around them, unaware of the seemingly unfounded tension. He wasn’t fully brought back to reality until the snap of a branch cracked through his fog.

The wind was picking up around them, ushering in dark clouds. He eyed the treeline, an uneasy feeling settling in. Getting to his feet, he took Julian’s hand in his, paying no further mind to Paul.

“Come on, before the rain comes in.”

John busied himself with Julian and reading for the rest of the night, leaving Paul to his own devices. Which resulted in the sound of a sorrowful piano lingering through the house. Neither man put forth the effort to talk to the other and when supper was had, John simply left all the plates on the table to give Julian his bath. 

Once Jules was warm and cozy in his green pajama set, he ran off down the stairs to John’s dismay. 

“Julian! It’s time for bed.” He only got loud giggles in response. John sighed, resolving to round up his son after he was back in his own pajamas.

He shuffled to his room, feeling exhausted, and stripped off his sweater. Before he could get much further, there was a knock at his open door. He turned to find Paul standing sheepishly at the threshold.

Rain was pattering against the window and a streak of lightning lit the room. John paid no mind to it, intently staring Paul down.

“You, um, didn’t eat your supper.”

John blinked slowly, huffing out a dry laugh. “You my mum now, are you?”

“Just that I’m- y’know- worried is all.”

“No one said you had to be.”

“Look, I just want you- us- to be okay, yeah? We’re walking on eggshells here.” Paul’s voice was desperate and John found himself relishing in the fact.

“It isn’t my responsibility to rebuild something I didn’t break.”

Paul stood in shock for a moment before starting, “I didn’t say that-”

They both went stock still, Paul’s words cut off by the shattering of glass and a child's scream. In less than a second, the two men's eyes met before they darted out of the room. Julian was crying as they hurried down the steps and into the living room. They searched around frantically, coming up empty. 

“Jules!”

“JULIAN,” John shouted, panic spiking through his veins as he tried to discern where his son's screams were coming from.

They followed the boys' pleas for his mum and dad until they turned a corner and found him. They both froze on the spot, Paul’s hand fiercely grabbing hold of John’s arm as they looked on at his son. He was crying, his face bright red, as a man with a black ski mask held him to his chest. Another man in a grey mask stood to the side, his gun pointed between John and Paul.

In an instant, John was trying to lung forward but Paul kept pushing him back, placing himself in the way of the intruders. “Look,” He panted. “Just put the boy down and take what you want.”

John pulled at Paul’s arm but the younger wouldn't let up. “Put him down you sick fucking bastard!”

The man holding Jules tilted his head to the side and brought up his free hand to reveal a sizable needle, filled with a clear fluid. The sight of it made Julian cry louder and John’s blood run cold. Paul could do nothing to stop John from lunging forward this time. He charged forward as the needle stayed steadily in place, only an inch from his son's neck.

“JOHN,” Paul choked out from behind. 

A gun was now directly to John’s temple. The man standing to the side was now at the ready. He cocked the gun back. Another intruder had their arm around Paul’s neck, needle raised up. John tried to plead but as he looked desperately between his friend and his son he found the needles were already in both their necks. 

He screamed and called out for them both as they went limp. Paul crumbled to the ground with a thud, mumbling incoherently until he went completely still. Julian was lifeless in the man's arms.

They were dead. 

John was sure of it. 

He had nothing left to lose. 

He charged the man that had killed his son, forgetting the gunman's existence in his rage.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Day 2_ **

When the world had faded around him, all that was left was a dull buzz that rang from somewhere above. The sound of the buzz raised harshly, pulling Paul to consciousness, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. As he struggled to open his eyes, vague emotions assaulted him into bolting upright, his breath ragged and vision spotted with black. As the dark spots cleared, he glanced to his left to find a bare room and bright lights that tilted and turned underneath him. Looking to the right, he found John laid out beside him on a dingy mattress, blood dried to the side of his face, matting his hair. The world suddenly shifted into balance and wrenching dread-filled its place.

“John?” Paul gagged at the metallic sting in his nostrils before being able to gently shake John’s shoulder, nausea taunting him all the while. John’s skin was cool to the touch, absorbing the warmth of Paul’s hands. “John!” He tried to ignore what that might mean, looking around them to find nothing of use.

A cry tried to rise in his throat when he looked back to his bloodied mate, cracking his voice as he softly called to him. ”Johnny, please…” His breathing was erratic, spiking pain in his chest. 

The older man didn’t stir and Paul was on the brink of full blown panic, heart galloping in his throat. He put his ear to John’s chest, hands still gripping his mate's shoulders. A gentle thud of the heart could be heard along with the slightest of breaths. He wasn’t dead. Paul fell against the concrete wall behind him in the little nook the twin sized mattress was shoved into. His hand didn’t leave John as he tried to breathe right again. After a moment of relief, a wall of dizziness hit him head-on and nausea rose up from his stomach, burning acid stinging his throat. 

He glanced up and rushed for a toilet that sat out in the open, small bits of rubble and staining indicating where a wall and sink had once been. His stomach contents turned out into the bowl until he was dry heaving, the taste of acid and supper leaving him sicker than he started. Finding he had nothing left to give, he fell back into the wall, pulling his hand across his mouth. It came away red and he put his fingertips to his lips, wincing at the pain from his apparent injury. His body radiated pain from head to toe, ribs twisted with aches and back engulfed in pain. His brain tried to play catch up as he stared at the bloodied figure of John until it rushed back to him, threatening another wave of sickness that he could barely hold back. 

They must have knocked John out with force after Paul had gone from the drugs. But where did that leave Julian? There was a syringe to his neck but had they taken him too? Or left him to survive on his own for three days. Both prospects filled Paul with more dread than he could bear. Weak from his upheaval, he crawled the small distance back to the mattress and collapsed beside John. His mate was still shirtless, only wearing his trousers. With trembling hands, Paul unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off to the protest of his every muscle. He was left in his white t-shirt, draping his dirt-covered dress shirt over John before collapsing at his side. They laid almost nose to nose as Paul stared, his hand barely able to push at John’s shoulder.

“Wake up, please, love.”

His effort was to no avail and his strength was wavering intensely until he was pulled into another spell of unconsciousness. He dreamed he was in a hotel room. He dreamed he was plucking at his guitar. He was nervous and his heart was pounding as he tried to play the guitar. His fingers fumbled the chords before it disappeared from his hands and he was left in the dark, a voice calling his name. It was John’s voice. John was calling his name and pulling him out of the dark until his eyes fluttered open and the buzz of the lights brought another wave of illness to his stomach. He curled in on himself, his stomach too empty to be sick, and grabbed at the arm holding his side. Pain rushed back over him and he flinched inward again. The hand moved up to the side of his ribs and down, rubbed his back. The aches across his shoulders were slightly soothed.

“Macca, come on.” 

He groaned and forced his eyes open to stare at a brick wall and blood stained mattress. Turning over was akin to ripping his own flesh but he found John at his side, smears of red across his face and lilac dress shirt hanging on his frame. The weak smile ushered a sense of relief over Paul as he pulled himself upright, John steadying him as he went.

“Are you alright?” Paul’s hand went to the side of John’s face, gently thumbing his bloodied temple. John winced, making Paul jerk his hand away. 

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I think they stitched up the split in my head while I was out.”

Paul turned his body away from John, blinking, and scrunching his whole face to clear his foggy head. “How long have you been-”

“An hour, now, probably. Saw you’d been up,” John thumbed towards the toilet. “Was hoping to fuck you wouldn’t overdose.” He wedged himself into the corner as they both stared at the wood beams of the ceiling. “Do you remember them beating the shit out of you?”

“Beatin-!” Paul tried to straighten, alarmed but found himself doubling over at the attempt. He grabbed at his ribs as he arched over, only causing a new surge of pain in his back. He cursed to himself, remembering these sensations in a much vaguer sense when he first awoke.

John was suddenly at his side to steady him back against the wall but Paul wasn’t having it. With gritted teeth, he raised his shirt up to reveal darkening bruises taking up most of his abdomen. A painful groan escaped him as he pulled himself off the wall, letting John look at his back. “It the same?”

John remained quiet, moving back to his corner. He waited until Paul was resting against the wall again. “Not nearly as bad.”

Paul knocked his head against the wall, staring at the pattern in the wood. “So,” he said on a breath. “We’ve been kidnapped.”

“Yeah.” John’s voice sounded distant and dry. Paul didn’t dare to look at him.

“Find a secret tunnel out of here while I was laid out?”

“Doors locked,” John gestured, his hand just in Paul’s field of vision, to a set of stairs Paul had hardly noticed at first. “The only windows boarded tight.” There was a single rectangle of plywood nailed to the middle of the wall, a small ray of light seeping through. “They didn’t pay mind to me screaming my head off either.”

Paul swallowed hard, pain stabbing through his burning throat, the taste of vomit still fresh on his tongue. “...Julian?”

Their eyes met in a tense stare. Tears were quickly wetting John’s eyes though his face was scrunched in anger. He seemed to shift even further from Paul, if possible. “Like you have the right to fucking know, even if I did.”

Paul raised his hands in surrender, taken aback. “Woah, John. I didn’t-”

“You didn’t? You didn’t what, mate? You’re the rea- You know what? It’s not even worth it. Sod the hell off.”

“What did  _ I  _ do? I didn’t have us kidnapped, did I now?”

“You think I give an ever-loving-shit about us?” John held the side of his head, tears slipping down his face. “Haven’t a clue where my kid is,” he rose to his feet and Paul followed. “And you think I care how we are?”

Paul clutched his aching ribs, extending his other hand out to John. “Look, It’s alright. We’ll figure it out, alright?”

“Oh the perpetual optimist, aren’t you? Julian could be anywhere and all you’ve got is ‘we’ll figure it out’. The fuck is there to figure out, then? That we’re trapped in a freezing basement? That there’s no way out?” John was towering over the hunched figure of Paul. “Why don’t you shut the hell up about what you’ve got no right speaking on!”

“No right? I’ve always loved Jules like he’s my own! More than you act like half the time!” He regretted it immediately. He didn’t mean that at all. Paul stood his ground, straightening as much as he could bear in preparation for a decking. 

John froze, mouth hung open. His fist loosened at his side. Tears were streaked through the blood and grit coating his face. The malice melted from his features.

“John, I didn’t- Didn’t mean that.”

John only sunk down to the floor, back against the wall. “Been saying that a lot recently, haven't you?” He looked up at Paul through thick lashes that stuck together with moisture. “You’re right though. Haven’t been a good dad and as soon as he’s left with me I- I lose him.” His hand slapped over his mouth, dragging down his face, unfocused eyes staring off into nothing. 

Paul slowly sat back down, making sure to give John his space. “It’s not your fault.”

“He’s only three…” He tucked his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on his knees. “He needs his mum… He needs....” John trailed off into silence, keeping himself tucked tightly inwards.

They sat in sorrowful silence for minutes or maybe hours. There was nothing much else to be done until footsteps fell above them, sending down bits of dust into the air. The footfall was heavy and startled them both into staring at the top of the steps where a door was hiding in the shadows. When Paul heard the slightest click of the door's mechanism, he shot to his feet and ignored the pain radiating through him, soon followed by John. He kept himself in front of John, his arm against the wall to keep him upright. The older man grabbed harshly onto Paul’s arm. He wondered if John was aware of his nails digging into his skin but Paul didn’t let himself pull away. If it kept John still he would take it.

Any fidgeting between the two stopped, freezing them in place when the door creaked open. The large figure of a stout man came down the steps.

They wore a black mask and proper business wear. With a small gasp, Paul pushed him and John back a step. There was a gun in the man's hands, the shining metal giving itself away under the buzzing orange lights. They were both standing atop the thin mattress when their kidnapper descended the steps and turned to them.

“Mr. Lennon, McCartney,”

Paul only blinked at the man, stunned by the business-like nature of his voice and stature. He sounded just like every decent business man that Brian had ever forced them into a meeting with. 

“This was supposed to be a much simpler affair. Complicated by extenuating circumstances, such as your friend here.” He focused his beady eyes on Paul, sending a shiver down his spine. “But with your cooperation-”

“I don’t give a shit about complications! Where’s my son!” John dug his nails deeper into Paul’s arm. “Where in the bleedin-”

The man brought his gun forward to cradle it in both his hands. “He is fine, Mr. Lennon. I assure you that he is not in our possession and was never meant to be.”

“Why should we even believe that?” Paul was surprised his own voice came out, though it was strained and dry, threatening to crack.

“Well, I guess you can’t, for now. But I am an honest man, in most regards, and I have no interest in traumatizing the young boy any further than the others have. He was properly taken care of. Maybe not to my liking but he is safe.”

“Who’s got him then?” John tried to break out from behind Paul but the younger man was prepared this time. He turned so they were face to face, keeping him in place. John’s eyes turned on him, blazing with anger. “Fuck off!” He shoved into Paul again and the younger man held back a cry as a new wave of pain shot through him. John didn’t register his mate's pain. “Is he just on his own?”


	4. Chapter 4

George’s hands were running across his guitar when the shrill buzz of his doorbell pierced the room. He ignored it once he heard the door open, figuring it was only Pattie letting him know she was back in. He kept an ear alert in case she needed help with bags but kept at strumming his tune. He played a few chords and jotted down a line of lyrics before he noticed there was no sound of footsteps or rustling bags.

He stopped strumming, moving his guitar off himself. “Pattie?”

His wife didn’t respond. George called out for his her again, cautiously leaving the couch to venture to the entryway. The door was wide open and a small figure was balled up at the threshold. Wrapped tightly in a jacket and bundle of blankets sat a sleeping Julian. His face was blotted with red as he lay completely still. George was shocked into stillness, eyeing his yard for any sign of John. But there was none. No car, no sound of voices. He hurriedly picked the small boy, holding him close.

“Jules?” George held his face in one hand. “Julian, hey!”

The boy groaned and nestled into George’s hand. His slight movement dislodged something from his swaddle of blankets. A box. George looked between Julian and the box, just as Jules eyes began to open.

“Hey, lad.” George huffed, smiling with relief. Julian almost immediately started crying into his chest, bunching up his shirt in his tiny hands. It was a bit of a struggle but George managed to pull him back enough to look him in the eyes. “Where’s John, huh? Daddy or mummy?”

Julian let out a proper sob, throwing himself back onto George’s chest. George gave him quiet reassurance as he bent down to grab the package. As he moved to get it he frightened Jules. Guilt mixed with the confusing shock stabbing at George’s head and he profusely apologized before awkwardly adjusting the boy in his arms to get the package. 

He swung the door shut behind him with the kick of his foot and hurried back to the couch. His heart was pounding and head swirling with what-ifs. Julian made no further sounds, only nuzzling into George’s side, arms wrapped around his waist. As soon as he was sure Jules was alright, George ripped the box open unceremoniously. There was a note inside alongside a sealed envelope, its contents making it bulk out at awkward points.

He plucked out the sheet of paper with a bit of red on it’s upper corner and read. The handwriting was a bit messy and hurried but the contents were clear as day. His mouth dropped open, instinctively pulling Jules closer to his side. Strings of curses were leaving his lips as he read but he couldn’t make himself move off the couch. He let his anxiety take over completely for the count of ten- a trick he picked up a while back for stage fright. It tingled through his fingertips and sped up his breathing. As he counted down, he pushed it to the back of his mind and tucked the now crinkled paper into the box. His fingers still tingled with numbness but he managed to pull Julian back into his arms as he went to the phone.

***

The quiet surrounding the Kentwood Estate was suddenly disturbed but the roar of a car’s engine. George slammed to a stop and left the car running. John and Paul’s cars were parked side by side. Nothing looked bothered or out of place in any way. He swallowed hard and turned to Jules as he undid his seatbelt.

“I'm going to look around, yeah? Sit here and don’t let anyone in the car you don’t know.” He unbuckled Julian’s seatbelt as well. “You can open the door for me when I come back?”

Julian nodded slowly and it was enough for George to accept.

The front door to the house was left wide open. His heart pounded louder in his ears as he ran through the threshold.

“Cynthia! John! Paul!” He kept at calling out the string of names as he hurriedly inspected the house. In the living room, he found guitars knocked over and a couple of on-edge cats. 

As he rounded through the living room, he found it.

Glass from the busted window was strewn across the floor and a pool of dark red was smeared out, like hair and hands had been drug through it, all the way to the back door. A smaller splatter of blood was nearby George’s feet. Blood. The idea of it being actual blood, blood of his best mates, shot a sickening twist through his stomach. He stepped closer and was assaulted by the copper stinch. There was no point in doubting it. It was truly blood.

His pounding heart, the red handprint against a step, and the awful smell was suddenly all too much for him to bear. He darted back for the front door and doubled over, no longer able to push his nerves away. He heaved in breaths, one hand pulling at his hair as the other gripped his thigh. Paul and John were gone. There was so much blood and they were nowhere to be found. They were just ponds in some sick cash grab and George couldn’t do shit about it.

“George?”

The sudden voice, though familiar, made George jump out of his skin. He pulled himself upright, forcing in a steadying breath, and found Brian stopped on the path. Worry covered every inch of the man's face. Julian was behind him, gripping his pant leg. 

“Where’s John?” He took a step closer, Julian shuffling along with him before breaking off to run to George. “Why was Julian in your car alone?”

George had neglected to tell his manager anything more then, “Just get to John’s now. Don’t tell a  _ fucking soul  _ where you’re going.”

Everything in him told him he had to explain but the thought of it threatened to shut his brain off. He leaned against a column, burying his face in his hands. With a shaky exhale he forced himself to look at Brian. He almost began when the sound of another car sent him rigid. Ringo’s car. A bit of relief washed over him knowing he’d only have to explain himself once.

About the same short call was made to Ringo and it clearly did the trick. Ringo all but sprinted to meet them, looking just as worried as Brian. “What’s happened? Where’s John and Paul?” His eyes darted to their cars and then to the small group.

“He was all red,” Julian spoke softly for the first time since George had found him, startling everyone. “Dad was.”

George stared blankly for a moment before having to squat down. His stomach twisted as he choked back the urge to puke. “Fuck.” It was John’s blood then. He pulled Julian into a hug, feeling immensely sorry the boy had to go through so much. He stood back up, holding Julian on his hip. 

“Geo,” there was a pause, hesitation painting Ringo’s every move. “What’s going on?”

George only shook his head. He yanked the small package from his coat pocket and shoved it in front of himself, offering it up for either man to take. Brian, being closest, took it at once, his hands visibly shaking. He took out the note and handed the box to Ringo.

“ _ John Lennon and Paul McCartney are ours. They will remain in our captivity until you comply with our wishes. _

_ Contact no one other than Ringo Starr and Brian Epstein. You must all go to the Kentwood house, with the little Lennon. No one is to leave or enter unless under our command. We’ve left presents in the box, if the boy is not enough to convince you that we speak the truth.  _

_ Do not contact the police.  _

_ Do not contact family. _

_ We will contact you when Cynthia Lennon has returned to the Kentwood home. _

_ Remember, if you do not comply they will be killed and their remains will not be returned for burial _ .”

Brian had read it all the way through, his voice barely holding on to composure. Once it was read, he folded the paper neaty and slowly. “They’ve been kidnapped…” he said on a breath. 

“They can’t-,” Ringo was shaking his head. He snatached the paper from Brian’s hands and scanned over it. “The bastards. We won’t know fuck all until Cyn gets in? We don’t even know where she is.”

There was a moment of silence, the only sound being the wind whipping around them as the skies darkened overhead. “We need to go inside,” Brian finally found his voice, looking paranoid and on edge. 

Numbly, George led everyone in and to the kitchen. He set Julian down, staying eye level with him. “Don't leave the kitchen, alright?” George looked to the boy with all the sternness he could muster. “You have to stay in here for now.”

Julian only nodded, retreating to a corner.

The three men gathered around the island and Ringo sat the box and letter down on the marble counter. 

“What is...um, in the envelope,” Brian asked.

“Couldn’t make myself open it. The note...Jules… was enough.”

Ringo looked between Brian and George, finding it would be his job to go through with it. He sighed and picked up the bulky envelope and ripped it open. He tipped out the contents into the box and out fell a pair of round glasses with black rubber around the edge. George registered them as John’s glasses he’d gotten from his recent movie. Next came the familiar silver chain bracelet with Paul’s name across one side. The chain was broken, obviously torn from his arm.

George let out a sigh, prepared for much worse. But the relief didn't last. Two polaroids floated out right side down, peaking his anxiety yet again. Ringo gulped loudly before moving to turn the pictures over. Brian quickly put his hand over Ringo’s.

“I- You don’t have to look,” he offered with kind eyes to both men, lingering to investigate George more closely. “I can, if you’d like.”

His stomach already twisted with dread, George shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Just fucking turn them over.”

There was a cautious glance between Ringo and Brian before the older man let him flip the photos over. Brian gasped at the sight, his hand flying over his mouth. Ringo and George were frozen in place, only staring on at the photos of their best friends as a flash of lightning lit the room.

The top photo was of Paul, eyes closed, lip bleeding. He was laid out on some kind of metal flooring, his hands bound in front of him. The shirt he was wearing was crinkled and scuffed with dirt. George thought one scuf looked to be in the shape of a shoe print. He grabbed his ribs at the implication. Just under Paul’s picture was John, blood on his face and eyes shut tight. He was on the same metal floor as Paul, his hands and feet bound. streaksof blood stood out starkly on his bare chest. 

At the sight of all the blood, George grimaced. He realized they’d have to do something with the bloodied floor if Julian was going to have to stay here with them. He pulled at his hair. “There’s more.” 

Both men’s eyes shoot to him.

“More? What more?” Ringo’s voice went high with tension.

“I won’t. I can't go back there but it's right off from the living room.” They stared at him for a moment, confusion clear on their faces. “You won't be able to miss it.”

Brian looked to him with sorrowful eyes. “Alright. Stay with Julian, then. We’ll be right back.” He looked to Ringo in a questioning manner. The drummer nodded and they disappeared.

Once they were gone, George sank to the floor. Rain had begun to patter outside, quiet rolls of thunder following suit. Wholly numb, George sat and watched Julian pick at a chip in one of his toy cars. “Hey,” he spoke softly, gaining the boys attention. “Do you know how the, uh,  _ red  _ got everywhere on your dad?”

Julian dipped his head down, looking up shyly. “No. I wanted my ball.”

“Alright. We’ll find it in a little while, yeah?” He waited for Julian to bob before continuing. “Any clue where your mum is?”

Julian sniffled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “She left. Uncle Paul was going- stay the night.”

“You know where? Or just how long?”

Julian shook his head hard before curling into a ball. “Don’t remember.”

His explanation didn’t help much but George was afraid to push the boy any further. “Hey,” He pulled on a weak smile. “You’ve done great, lad.”

Eyes to the ceiling, George sent a silent prayer that the kid would be able to forget this whole mess as he got older.

“God help us,” Brian breathed from nearby. George pulled himself up to find Ringo wasn’t with him. He gave his manager a questioning glance. Brian swallowed. “He insisted on cleaning it- Ringo insisted. I’m just-“

Brian’s words were cut off by the ring of the phone. His heart in his throat, George raced for the phone, Brian hot on his trail.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! Here's a Christmas present from me!

Day 2

John rested his head against the rough wall, the cold concrete stealing his body heat. His head was pounding in near agony and his stomach growled in painful protest. At least the blood had been cleared from his face and unmatted from his hair. 

Their captor had brought down a plastic jug of water after he explained to both John and Paul that Julian was left in the care of George. He left them to do with the water what they pleased and hadn’t been back since. They both immediately took full drinks from the water, passing it in silence. 

Predictably, Paul jumped at the opportunity to clear the blood off himself. He tore a bit of cloth from a cleaner corner of the mattress and went to work dabbing his own lip. John sat and stared, hugging his knees to his chest. He watched every pained movement of Paul’s body and hated himself for caring before finding he hated himself more for not wanting to care.

Paul had set the blotted rag to the side before tearing off a new strip. As he approached John, guilt lent a harmful hand to John's already wrecked state. On his knees, directly in front of John, Paul wet the rag. He opened his mouth to speak but only gestured to John’s head. John didn’t move an inch but blinked slowly, much like a cat. Paul had either understood the meaning or took the risk of being told off, beginning to clear John’s face of blood. 

He started at John’s temple, gingerly dabbing the blood, before moving down to his cheek. He paused, glancing between John’s neck and his eyes. John had only stared back. Paul finally cleared his throat. “Want me to, um, do the rest?”

Caught between resentment and guilt, John had slowly taken the rag from Paul’s hand. “I’ve got it.” His voice came out completely emotionless, sounding foreign to his own ears. 

Paul moved back to lean against the wall, staring into nothingness while John finished cleaning himself up. When he was done he tossed the rag away and sat back, watching as Paul’s eyelids drooped down. John could tell he was forcing himself to stay awake. 

“Get some kip.” John finally broke his trance, placing a weary hand on his mate's shoulder. Paul had hummed in faint agreement as they laid down together, face to face. There was no talk of sleeping top to tail. No talk at all. Just painful silence they tried to disguise as calm. 

As soon as John was sure Paul was soundly asleep, he sat up again. Resolutely, John had decided not to sleep. Sleep was a pleasure he hadn’t earned. Something he didn’t deserve. Because, after all, he should suffer more. 

Paul had been asleep for some time now and John just watched him, all curled up tightly in a ball, flinching in his sleep with lids squeezed shut. Whatever sleep he was getting, John knew it wasn’t sound. He looked absolutely miserable, actually. John could barely stand it. Paul had always found sleep easily, unlike himself- never sleeping so scrunched up. Seeing him in the complete opposite state made John’s nerves buzz.

He gently took Paul’s hand in his, rubbing circles on the back. He didn’t know if it was more to soothe himself or his friend but Paul did seem to relax a bit and the pounding in his own head subsided, if only slightly. He looked up Paul’s arm where he had grabbed him earlier and saw three crescent moon cuts in his skin. His small sin made him worry at his lip. He hadn’t even realized how hard he was holding his mate, the fear for his son's life frying his brain. But he still shouldn’t have held him so desperately, so harshly, that it left marks. Paul would minimize it, he knew. There was reason too, sure. And John had let up almost immediately after the masked man had turned around. But he was still incredibly anxious, even now. He tried desperately to believe his kidnapper but it was an oxymoron that his mind couldn’t accept. Julian could be anywhere, could be right upstairs, and he wouldn’t know. The thought made him a bit ill.

Paul had finally relaxed some, his body stretched out and limper than before. The hem of his shirt was hiked up his waist, giving a clear view of his extensive bruising. Hungry and beaten- that’s where he had gotten his friend.

If he hadn’t called him up, Paul would be safe. If he hadn’t fought with Cynthia, Julian would be safe. But John Lennon had to go and be a selfish man with selfish actions and with it came horrendous consequences. He was meant to go this alone. But he was needy. Always needy. He needed to see Paul. Needed him near. Needed his attention.  _ How pathetic _ .

If he could go back to three weeks prior he would in an instant. He could have not knocked on that door. Could have gone straight to bed. Then, maybe, he would have been alone in all of this. He could have stood it all with the knowledge that Paul and Jules were safe. But, instead, every second in the cold and gray basement was an hour of torment on his mind.

Heavy footsteps came from above, cutting off any thoughts from John’s brain. They were louder than before. No, not louder. Doubled. Two sets of footsteps with muffled conversation underlaid.

John went on high alert and scrambled to Paul’s side, shaking him awake as gently as possible while still being effective. “Up, up, Macca! They’re coming down.”

It took a moment, but Paul eventually found himself in a half-awakened state. “Who-“ his voice caught in his throat and he grimaced with pain. “What’s happening?”

John said nothing, only helping Paul to his feet as the door to the basement opened. They both stared up at the doorway as the man from before walked down. Closely following was a slender, more feminine figure, wearing a similar dark suit and black mask. Though the woman’s mask only covered the lower half of her face.

“Keep him occupied then. He isn’t my problem.” The man shot back to his partner as she securely closed the door.

“He’s just got a temper, is all. He’ll get over it, Mr. Zero.” The woman’s voice was tired and much less polished than the man's. John wasn’t sure but it sounded as though she was from the southern states.

Besides the addition of this woman, something was different. There was no gun in sight. John wasn't naive enough to think that meant there was no gun at all but it did open opportunities. With no guns drawn maybe they could get the upper hand. But then again, John thought, how long would it take to draw a gun and fire? Would they even have time to get it from this rather large and imposing man before he shot them dead? At the thought, John craved to reach out and pull Paul close. But he didn’t. Instead, they both stood rather still as the pair of kidnappers descended the steps.

“Got yourself a whole kidnapping brigade up there, have you,  _ Mr. Zero _ ?” Paul grabbed the back of John’s shirt. He wasn’t sure if it was to warn him to shut up or to keep himself upright. The former idea stuck, though, irritating him. “Bet she’s the only one with the hourglass figure, though.”

The woman raised a curious brow. “I see why you aren’t called the charming one.” She looked back to Paul with softer eyes.

It was all John could do to not roll his eyes. Even in a situation like this there’s still someone trying to get with Paul. It was honestly infuriating but John didn't have time to comment before Mr. Zero started.

“I believe the  _ figures  _ of my colleagues are not something of importance to either of you.”

“Oh, colleagues, is it? You go out for a pint together after the shift?”

Zero went on as if John hadn’t spoken. “But I  _ do _ think that I won’t be speaking out of line in assuming you’d find speaking with your friends and family an important matter. Four,” he nodded his head to the woman who had pulled out zip ties at some point while he was talking. “Tie their wrists, please.”

Paul gave a weak, nervous, laugh as Four neared. “Is that necessary now, love?” Something in the movement must have hurt his ribs. He was obviously -to John at least- fighting the urge to double over and losing. Four took the opportunity to grab his hands and quickly zip his wrists together. The plastic bit into his skin and he hissed in a painful breath.

“Easy, now. I’m sure we’d both love to be tied up by you under better circumstances.” 

This brought a cold chuckle from her lips as she zipped John’s wrists even tighter than Paul’s. She stepped back to be beside Zero, crossing her arms as he uncrossed his.

With a moment's contemplation, Zero reached around the back of himself and pulled a gun. It stayed limply at his side, his finger extending down the barrel. “You both will be brought upstairs and sat down by the phone. I will give the ransom demand then give you each two minutes with whoever you choose to speak with.” Paul made to speak, raising his tied hands. But his hand went straight back down as Zero raised the gun to his chest. His finger moved down to the trigger as he looked over Paul. “Tsk, Tsk, Mr. McCartney. Patience is a virtue you may seek to work on.” He cleared his throat, lowering the gun to his side. “Now, you both should be home in two days time, if everyone complies.”

“Aye, if we haven’t started yet,” Paul remarked with impressive boldness. It was now John’s turn to wish Paul would shut up.

“Pardon? You haven’t been fed?” He turned harshly to Four. Zero was holding back a nasty reaction with all his control, angry only a faint glint in his eyes. “This was a task for Six, was it not?” 

“Yes.”

“And he has not done his part?”

“I- I’m not too sure.”

“We haven’t been.”

John eyed Paul cautiously. He didn’t much care for this reversal of roles.

“I’ll make sure you’re both fed.” He shot a piercing look to Four. “Even if I must do it myself. Now, pat both of them down again.”

Four furrowed her brow. “We already checked them over when they got here.”

“You should learn now that you can never be too cautious. Pat them down.”

Four conceded, going to John first. “Arms up.”

John lifted his arms, eyeing the woman as she grabbed at his arm, moving down to his sides. “Careful with the family jewels, now.”

She only rolled her eyes, patting down both legs before moving to Paul. She motioned for him to move his arms. “Come on.”

Paul’s face twisted in pain at an attempt and realization quickly rushed over John, putting a pit in his stomach. Four made to push his arms up but John quickly butted in, putting himself between the two. 

“You trying to hurt him more?!” He was swiftly shoved into the wall, the barrel of Zero’s gun pressed hard into his chest and forearm crushing his neck. He choked out, “He can’t- His ribs-”

“Get off of him! He wasn’t trying at anything!”

Zero let up, slowly backing away from John. “What do you mean?” He pointed his gun towards Paul, eyeing him up and down.

John rubbed at his neck. “What do I mean? One of your goons kicked the shite out of him!”

Zero stopped to look between them. Four was looking off to the side, playing at disinterest. 

“Excuse me?”

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” Paul said, nervously, looking between John and Zero. 

Zero narrowed his eyes. “Move your arms.”

John watched on to the side, his heartbeat riding high in his throat. With obvious difficulty, Paul raised his arms up a bit. Zero held his gun to Paul with one hand, raising his shirt with the other. His stomach was just as bruised as ever, complete with a grimace on his face.

Zero huffed and let Paul’s shirt fall. “Come now. Follow Ms. Four up the steps.” He gestured them forward with the wave of his gun and they complied, with John taking the lead. As they fell in line, Zero glared at Four. “I’ll deal with  _ this _ later.”


	6. Chapter 6

Though there may have been a thought in John’s mind that taking the lead would make Paul safe on some minuscule level but it was an incorrect one. Zero was close behind Paul as they made their way to the steps. The barrel of the gun pushed into Paul’s spine as they went up and he couldn’t help but think of how easily the damned thing could go off. Sure, the man was quite professional in his criminal pursuits but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t just trip and shoot Paul on an accident. Or, hell, maybe he’d just mean to kill him. Paul wasn’t meant to be here, that had been made clear enough. He was expendable. 

A shiver traveled down his spine as a desperate want to not be near a gun ever again filled him to the brim.

It’s curious how some things in life cannot be predicted. Had anyone tried to warn him of this moment, Paul would have called them crazy. If anyone had tried to warn him of the last three weeks of his life, actually, he would have thought them insane. To say the least, this was not quite how he imagined spending his time off. He wanted to spend it with John. Writing and playing music, like normal. He wanted normal. He wanted everything to be forgotten and to start over. Because where things had gone was sour and bitter, the feelings put on blast under the new circumstances. Normal sounded so sweet.

But his head couldn’t process normal. 

The walk up the steps was too much. His breaths were too shallow. Dizziness spread through this body on a tidal wave. He felt about to fall over but took in a deep and painful breath, his ribs protesting every second. The pain cleared his head of faintness as Four, and then John went through the doorway. He quickly followed, the pressure of the gun leaving his lower spine as he did. 

He was met with a dimly lit room. Nice furniture and expensive looking decor filled the space. All brought to view by a multitude of lamps with fringed shades. The obvious places windows should be were covered with black bin bags. There was a door to the left, the decorative glass at the top also covered by a thin bag, with a man standing guard in front of it. Arms crossed and mask on. 

Though he was dressed exactly like Zero and Four, there was something familiar in his stance and posture. Could he have been the one that had held John at gunpoint? Paul’s blood froze at the thought.

He hadn’t realized he had stopped to just stare at the doors guard until the barrel of the gun was once again pushing him forwards. He started, reluctantly, and made his way to the set of wooden dining chairs. They were out of place alongside the plush couches and darker wooden furniture. 

He took his seat after John, facing the door that meant freedom with the man taunting him just by existing. As they sat and Zero spoke in hushed tones to the man at the door, John’s eyes searched all over Paul. Paul raised his brows expectantly but he said nothing. 

“I really am, y’know. Fine, that is.”

John stifled a snort, tucking his chin to his chest, before eyeing Paul again. Paul could see it before the words even left John’s mouth. 

“Why don’t you save your energy, Macca, and drop the act. I always was the better actor, anyroad.” 

He wasn’t buying it.

“Aye. What if I ain’t fine? Think that’s more than allowed here and now. You’re not too gear either, gash in the head and all.”

John leaned forward, persistence in his every movement. What did he want from Paul? 

“Stop pushing everything away. Stop pretending.”

Paul blankly staring into John’s eyes. Not listening at all, he pushed away his first thought and moved to the next. Maybe that was it. Maybe he wanted Paul to be worried and drop the optimism. Maybe he should be more worried. Or maybe, very out of pocket but not out of the realm of possibility, it wasn’t about that. He wanted it to be.

Before much could be processed, Zero moved between Paul and John. The trance was broken and Paul let out a breath, falling back into his seat. As Zero spun the dial on the phone, Paul heard the door slam open and something fall to the floor. Zero snapped up in an instant, slamming the phone into the receiver, and blocked Paul’s view completely. Bright light outlined the large man like a halo.

“Get him-“ 

Three loud bangs rang out. Everything that followed happened in the blur of an instant.

****

Ringo would have sworn time was standing still if not for the steady beat of rain hitting the window. He was on the couch, tapping his fingers on the coffee table that was cluttered with empty cups once filled with tea or coffee. 

_John’s_ couch.

 _John’s_ coffee table. 

But no John. 

The creeping anxiety of the atmosphere was building in his chest. _Tap, tap, taptaptaptaptaptap_. He fell back into the couch with a shuddering breath.

His millionth cigarette of the night hung from his lip but he had barely pulled on it for five minutes now. He couldn’t have told anyone if it was even lit anymore.

George was sprawled across the armchair opposite from him, Julian asleep on his chest, a cat rested a few inches above his head. But he was wide awake, eyes glued to the phone.

George and Brian hadn’t slept and Julian had only curled up on George an hour earlier. But none of the men were letting on they were tired if they were. Ringo didn’t know if it was possible to be tired with this much adrenaline and caffeine coursing through him. 

From the second he had seen George’s pale face, tinged with a sickly green, standing on the stoop he knew he was in for it. He couldn’t recall a single time he’d seen George that scared or heard his voice so meek. Though the meek voice was pushed to the wayside, the lad coming back to life after the phone call with Cynthia. Or, more aptly, the fight afterward.

Ringo had lied to her when she called in yesterday.

“How’s Julian?”

“Cyn?” Ringo had made it to the phone first and was shocked to find it was Cynthia and not the kidnappers.

“Oh, Rich! Are you with John? Could you put him on?”

Ringo looked worriedly to George and Brian. But they were bewildered as well. Ringo ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to scare her. That couldn’t make for any good. But he needed to get her home soon.

“Um, well, John’s outside… with Paul right now.” She sounded as though she was about to say something but Ringo kept talking. “Cyn, you should probably think about coming in soon. Julian seems to be getting under the weather. John, you know, was actually about to come in and ring you up.” The words rushed out awkwardly but he had gotten through it all. It had worked as well, to his surprise.

She said something about being home by morning before Ringo hung up and looked to Brian and George for reassurance. 

“She’s on her way then? Good,” George breathed, tension dissolving from his form.

“Yes. This will hopefully speed things along.” Brian cleared his throat. “Since she’s coming in tomorrow, we should consider... calling in a favor.”

“What do you mean?” George raised himself to his full height, his intense gaze fixed.

The conversation quickly escalated into an argument that left George fuming and Brian obviously hurt. George refused to acknowledge his existence for the rest of the day, even after the argument was settled and Brian yielded.

Ringo, now, looked up at the light clatter of dishes to find Brian coming in with a full tray of tea and biscuits. He looked at neither of them as he cleared a spot off on the table and sat everything down. No one spoke, so he picked up the used cups and left again. 

George and Ringo looked to one another.

“He’s just trying to do what’s best.”

“Well, he’ll get them killed doing it. You don’t think calling in the fucking queen of bloody England’s attack dogs will stir up things enough to get them killed?”

“I’m on your side.” Ringo brought his hands into the air, plucking out his cigarette as he went. “Bri’s just… We’ve got MBE’s now. It wasn’t a heinous thought.” George didn’t give way, his face set in stone as his hands held lightly to Julian’s back. Ringo sighed. ”He gave in didn’t he?” 

Brian came back in at that and met eyes with Ringo. Again, nothing was said, but Ringo tried to give him a friendly smile. Brian reciprocated, pouring three cups of tea to each man’s liking. He handed the first cup to George, who took it with a deadly glare.

Ringo couldn’t see Brian’s immediate reaction but knew he couldn’t have taken the look well. He looked properly spooked by a man almost 10 years his junior when he turned to Ringo and handed him his tea.

“Ta,” he mumbled. 

His words, though few, must have been enough to convince Brian to sit at his side. George carefully sat his tea down but Ringo cupped his mug tightly. The warmth infused his rough hands and brought him some sense of calm. 

Brian held out a lighter, motioning to Ringo’s cigarette. He let him relight it and took a proper drag.

Day was breaking outside and the skies were clearing. The patter of rain let up to an almost nonexistent rate. 

After a while, Brian broke the silence. “Cynthia will be in shortly, I’m sure.”

Ringo looked to the ceiling at the thought of having to deal with breaking the news to poor Cynthia. She was always so lovely and sweet that the thought of breaking her heart would easily be the last thing on Ringo’s mind. He wasn’t sure any of this mess could get any worse. He didn’t dare say that though, at risk of jinxing any good will the universe would give them.

Realizing no one had replied to Brian, Ringo huffed, and looked to his manager before he started at the clock on the wall. “Who’s telling her?” 

Now it was his turn to sit in silent wait. No one said a word but both stared directly at him. He was about to give in and do it himself. If there was anything in his power to do he wanted to do it. Cleaning up the blood and glass had almost been too much but he was still willing to push himself more. 

“I’ll break it to her,” Brian spoke.

This, however, was spared from his mental taxation.

No one objected, George was actually a bit relaxed by the announcement. Julian was still out cold on his chest, little fist curled into the silky fabric of George’s shirt. His cheek was nuzzled into his chest. As George raised a hand to sip his tea, the boy fussed to get closer, if that were possible.

He reminded Ringo of his own son and it made him grateful it wasn’t his kid going through this mess. “He’ll be happy to have his mum,” Ringo said with a nod.

They sat in tense silence for ages, sucking down too many cigarettes before the rumble of a car peaked everyone’s attention. George stretched his neck to see out the window as Ringo snuffed out his cigarette and quickly got up to check to make sure it was Cynthia.

“Mummy?”

Ringo turned around to find Julian groggily pulling himself off George before turning back. Cynthia was getting out of a taxi, grabbing a large travel bag before turning to the house.

“Just stay with me for a mo, Jules,” George said as he pulled himself and Julian into an upright position.

“Where’s mummy?” His voice was still full of sleep, pitched to a sleepy whine.

“She’ll be here,” Ringo assured as he watched the neatly kept head of blonde hair approach just over the bushes. He turned his attention to the taxi, watching it intently as it continued to sit in the driveway. The driver was barely visible so no distinct features could be made out, other than a mess of red hair. 

The door opened but Ringo didn’t move. He heard Julian yell for his mother and a general shuffle of feet. 

“Hello, my big boy,” Cynthia cooed to her son from the next room. Some muffled words went unheard until she called out, “John? Boys?”

There was more shuffling of feet as the taxi finally moved. Ringo sighed with relief as it turned in the drive and went out. It disappeared behind a line of tall shrubs and he turned around to find the room was only occupied with himself and George.

The guitarist was sitting solemnly, elbows to knees, head downcast. A heartbreaking sob made both men cringe. Ringo could feel Cynthia’s shattering pain from where he stood. He gripped the arm of the couch before falling into his seat.

There were more muffled words and broken sobs from the next room. It seemed to last an eternity.

When Cynthia finally walked into the living room, she looked beyond devastated. George got to his feet first, meeting her halfway. She fell into him, her arms wrapping around his back. After a moment, she pulled away from George, still holding one of his arms as she wiped away tears. She looked to Ringo, beckoning him forward then grabbed his arm.

“Are you two alright?”

Ringo was taken back by the question. He had thought she might be upset that he lied to her but she didn’t look it or sound it. In all honesty, he should have known better than to think that of her. She had never once shown an ill temperament towards him or most anyone, really.

“We’re fine, Cyn. What about yourself? Can make you a cuppa,” George offered, giving her arm a squeeze. 

“No, no! Brian’s already bathing Julian for me. Couldn’t think to ask of more.” Ringo was about to insist when she continued, looking to George. “Thank you, by the way. Brian’s told me how you’ve been with Julian and I-” Her voice caught in her throat and she brought George into another hug. “Thank you.”

Ringo left the two there to clear up the mess they had made. He came back to find the two sitting on the couch. George was lighting Cynthia’s cigarette and Cynthia was holding it with shaking hands. Ringo placed the newly cleaned cup down and poured some tea and milk into it before sitting it in front of her. She gave a quiet thank you and Ringo took a seat in the armchair. 

Just as he did, the phone to his right began to ring. He jumped at the sound and took it up before he could even think. Cyn and Geo were at the edge of their seats.

“Hello?”

On the other end of the line, he heard John’s voice raised and screaming for Paul. The screams shot through Ringo like an arrow, leaving him with his mouth hung open. George hurried from the couch and snatched the phone from his hands. 

“John! John, what's happening?”

Ringo could hear the shouting clear as day. “You shot him! PAUL! PAUL!” 

John Lennon sounded half crazed as he called out for their friend.

“What the hell is going on?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: anti-semitic comment  
> tw: homophobic slur

In all the chaos Paul barely registered John’s shouting.

He was pinned in place, warm blood spreading across his stomach. He tried to heave in air but could hardly manage it, chest spasming at the attempt. There was a vague awareness that the immense weight of Zero was crushing the lower half of his body. The pressure stung hot static into his muscles. Even without a grown man's weight keeping him down, he wasn’t sure he would be able to move. The ring of the gun was still in his ears and the world was tinged with dark spots. He laid out, unable to breathe or move.

He suddenly wondered if he had been shot. He hadn’t really thought of it with all the strain pulsing through his body. But maybe the pain was more from a bullet ripping through him, not from being knocked to the floor. Maybe the blood pooling around him was his own.

Hands were grabbing him, shaking him. John’s voice was closer, louder. Paul pulled himself back into the world and found a panic-stricken John above him. As he took in John’s alarmed expression, he was jolted back to life. The pain came in on a second wave as he pulled in short and sharp inhales, beginning to frantically shove at Zero. His tied hands made it nearly impossible to make any sort of progress.

“Off! Get- Get him off! Can’t- I can’t-”

His breathing was erratic, spiking more pain in his chest, but he ignored it. John hushed him as soothingly as he could as he helped shove Zero to the side. 

“Are you alright? Did it hit you?” He carefully searched over Paul’s body, moving his hands down his bloodied chest in search of a wound as Paul stayed in place, still heaving down gulps of air. 

The absence of Zero’s weight rid him of the afflicting black spots at a dizzying rate. His mind turned cogs as he took in the situation. Blood and gunpowder stung his nose and he couldn’t help but stare at the dead body next to him.

Dread dripped into his bones, threatening to shut him down. It would be easy to let it. All emotions turning off, allowing complete and utter withdrawal. But John was still at his side. The drips of dread were promptly shaken off.

“John,” He grabbed John's hands to still them. Paul’s eyes flicked back to Zero, who was laying face down on the ground, his blazer hiked awkwardly in the back to reveal a gun.

Without a moment's hesitation, Lennon lunged for the weapon, pulling it from the waistband and awkwardly clutching it in his bound hands. Its aim was on the man who was still on the phone and talking with someone. John slowly got to his feet and Paul tried to follow but found it too painful. He grabbed ahold of the chair beside him and pulled himself up as his nerve endings seared.

John was frantically swiveling his head, surveying the room, before he aimed the gun square at the back of the man that had shot Zero. There was no one to stop him, as the doors guard was laid out on the ground with Four crouched over him.

“Oy! Look around!”

The man turned, stopping mid-sentence as he looked on at the duo. A smile spread across his face, looking pleased with John.

“I’ll have to call you back. Your boys are making quite the ruckus.” He hung up slowly and turned to lean back against the table. “Now this is what I call a kidnapping. Double crossing! Intrigue! Mystery! Near escape?” He was smiling like a fool, all teeth and glinting blue eyes. As he spoke, Four came to his side, pointing her gun at John. “And you!” He put his hands out to John, adoration laced through him. “If I was told I would meet John Lennon twice in a month…” He sighed loudly and grabbed at his chest before pulling off his mask. 

Underneath was a handsome enough man with a wild expression printed onto his face. The ski mask had left his hair in a mess of a state, dark locks sticking in every direction that only furthered the crazed look about him.

Some sort of recognition and terror was shaking John. “You! You fucking bastard!” He held the gun more steadily now, tightening his grip. “You absolute-” John stammered, words apparently lost on him. “Paul, come on.” He motioned for Paul to come closer.

Paul slowly moved towards him, not daring to question John’s reaction to the man. But he couldn’t help to wonder how the hell John knew the lunatic.

“Don’t know. Paul here isn’t looking too hot for an escape.” The man said with mock sadness as Paul stood hunched over. Paul knew he could run, even with his ribs like this. But John was mostly uninjured. He could run much faster and much easier.

Paul straightened himself, his grip tightening on his bloody shirt. His heart sunk to the floor as the realization set in. The man was right. If he tried to go he would only slow John down and get him hurt. Or worse, get him killed.

Desperation and fear struck every curve of John’s body. Paul couldn’t let himself drag John down. He had to go without Paul. He had a child and a wife. Whereas Paul had a dead end relationship and a puppy. He wouldn’t let Julian be without a parent, doomed to the same torment he and John had felt as kids.

But there was more to it, wasn’t there? The last night in the hotel spun through his mind. Drunken warmth buzzing through him. John dressed to the nines across the room. What had he been thinking? Why had he said anything? Why had he lied? He had thought he knew what fear was at that moment. He thought he was justified in his actions because of that fear.

Awful regret churned in his stomach. Regret for which part? He wasn’t sure. Nothing had been the same between them in the past three weeks and now he would die before he could resolve it. Because of course he would. They were still soulmates, after all. Paul had always believed that, even if he’d never said it to John, except when far too high. And what was a soulmate for if they weren't willing to die for the other?

“Don’t you dare, John.” He had made up his mind. “Get out of here, now!”

“Hmm. A sweet sentiment, Paul. But I wouldn’t put so much faith in us not shooting you if he moves.” The man said lazily, still leaning on the small side table. Four moved the barrel of her gun to aim at Paul’s throat.

Paul ignored all of this, trying to not freeze up with fear. 

“John, look at me. Look at me!” John’s eyes tentatively went to Paul’s, wet with tears. Paul gulped back a lump that wasted no time forming. “ _Go_. Just go without me,” he choked out.

“Oh! That’s very interesting.” They both snapped their attention back to the man. He lackadaisically waved a gun through the air. “You’re thinking of going?” He smiled at John. “Eh?” But he didn’t let John answer. 

Instead, he points his gun straight to John’s chest, bringing a cry from Paul before the barrel's aim dipped and a shot was fired. The gun John had taken went skidding across the floor as he fell with a shout of agony. A deep red poured from the center of his bare foot as he held his leg to his chest.

Paul all but threw himself to the floor, rushing to John's side. He knelt beside John, pulling him close as he noticeably stifled further cries and groans. With his hands still tied, Paul could do next to nothing to help. 

Blood poured from between Lennon’s fingers. He bit down hard on his lower lip, turning the pink skin white. He didn’t pay any mind as Paul tried to calm him, only pulling his leg as close to his torso as possible. Neither of them were in the condition to get up off the floor, let alone run. They were screwed.

“Now that no one will be leaving, I’d like to properly introduce myself.”

“We don’t give a fuck about your number, mate. Pegged your number quite fine ourselves,” John spat, lunging a bit from the ground only for Paul to pull him back into his arms. “Fucking maniac!”

“A little pain’s made you quite the mouthy one. Four, go get Eight.” The woman stepped between them all and went for the front door. “Don’t bother with Ten. I took her out too,” he called after her. There was a sudden rigidness in her spine but she left nonetheless. “And get those details from Seven,” he added, volume amplified to make it through the closed door

“He needs a doctor,” Paul spoke up through a strained voice, his focus barely able to leave John for more than a second.

The man studied Paul, his head tilting to the side before a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, yes. Introductions. My little code name was Six but I don’t think that’s very necessary now. Feel free to call me Theo.” The two were too engrossed in one another to pay attention. “Though, John might have recalled that.”

Realizing he didn’t know what the man was talking about, Paul whipped his head up. Anger and confusion swirled inside him. But now wasn’t the time to grill John on his questionable acquaintanceship.

“Whatever gets us out of here, we’ll do it. Just tell us what you want.” Paul was trying his hardest not to grit his teeth as he spoke but he wasn't sure if it was working.

“Like hell we will. You’ll have us dead, you bastard!” 

Paul pulled on John’s shoulder. “The loon’s still got a gun.”

“And he can hear you, as well,” Theo snarled, gesturing wildly with the gun as he pulled himself from the edge of the side table. He knelt down beside the two, gun loosely pointed to Paul’s stomach. John cringed away, grabbing on tightly to Paul’s leg with bloodied hands. Paul, on the other hand, held the sights of the gun with little complaint, glad that it wasn’t on John. “Make this easier on everyone and shut up,” he whispered before the door reopened and Four appeared with another man in a mask.

Theo stood up straight, a smile returning to his face, and addressed the newcomer. “Eight, great to see you.” He waited as the man walked closer, Four in his wake. “Move Lennon. Work on his foot but not that well. Don’t need it healing too quickly.”

John and Paul both went up in protest as Eight grabbed John by the shoulders and yanked him up to his feet. He awkwardly hobbled and bit back cries, forced to lean on the man for support as he was directed to a nearby couch. As they continued to protest, Theo grabbed the back of Paul’s shirt and dragged him up and towards the phone. He threw Paul down in the chair, knocking the wind from him. He tried to steady himself as John yelled something about not hurting him like that. Paul simply schooled his features into a dead eyed glare, refusing to give any satisfaction to the man.

“The paper?” Four came over and handed a scrap of stationery to him. “Alright. Shut him up so we can get on with the show.”

*****

The tension in the room was suffocating. George stood stiff still by the phone, mouth hung open. The kidnapper had started on some bizarre rant that meant nothing useful as his friends screamed in the background. Before he could make sense of any of it, the line went dead. Leaving Cynthia crying, Ringo speechless, and himself scared to death.

After he tried to explain what had happened to Cyn and Ringo, Ringo shouted for Brian. Their manager appeared in an instant, with Julian on his heels. The little boy shot past everyone to jump into his mother's lap and hug her tightly as she tried to hide her tears.

Ringo gave the short of it and Brian moved to stand by George, putting a hand on his shoulder. George barely registered it at all, his body lost in nothingness. 

“Let me take the next call, alright?”

George gulped, nodding his head and taking a single step back from the phone. He wanted to move more- move to the other side of the damned house- but he couldn’t. There was just enough room for Brian to take his place without standing on top of each other. 

“So he said nothing of importance?” 

“Nothing I could make out with all the yelling going on.”

“And did you say anything?”

His jaw clenched tight and he bit back his panic. “No more than my name and asking him to just tell me what to do to get John and Paul back.” 

Brian hummed, leaning over to place his hands on the side table. There was a tense and dreadful quiet in the room, broke up only by the tick of the clock and Cynthia’s hushed words to her son. 

It was no more than five minutes before the blare of the phone frightened them all into a start. George's heart was at a sprints pace, blood rushing to pulse in his fingertips. Brian took up the phone and obviously forced a calmness over himself.

“Hello,” his eyes were darting around the room, desperate for something to focus on. “No. This is Brian Epstein. Are John and Paul-“ he paused for a moment. “That’s not- No.” A shout leaked out from the phone, sending a tremor of nerves through George. “Alright! Just stop! He’s here.” Brian turned apologetically to George, holding the phone out between them. “He wants you to do the talking.”

George’s eyes went wide, staring at the phone before slowly taking it in his hand. “This is George.” His voice came out quiet and flat.

“Yes. The baby Beatle.” The man from earlier was back in his ear, pompous American accent and all. “So good to see I haven’t scared you off. I quite like the idea of the baby of the group pulling the big strings for once. Put some hair on the chest.”

“Are they alright- John and Paul? They’re okay, yeah?”

“Oh yes, yes. Here.”

“George?” Paul’s voice was haggard but he was positive it was his friend. “You’ve got Julian? He’s alright?”

“Y-Yes! He’s fine, mate. All good with Cyn.” George could suddenly only hear strange and muffled sounds.

“Alright. Enough of that.”

“What are you doing?” John’s voice echoed from far away. “Get off him!” There was a loud cry of pain that sent a shiver down George’s spine.

“What are you doing to them? Just tell me what you want!” George couldn’t keep his voice level. Couldn’t keep calm. He had a white knuckled grip on the table.

“And that is your assurance of our willingness to inflict pain. Isn’t that right, John? He had a little _accident_ is all. Guns are tricky things.”

“You _shot_ him?” George’s voice raised two octaves, pushing the phone closer to his ear. Cynthia let out a proper cry.

“Oh, not important. They’re both fine. Now, my conditions.”

“No! Let me talk with John- make sure he’s fine.”

He heard the man grunt a laugh. “Look, Mr. Harrison-“

“Get the fuck off of him!” John’s voice came again, “Sto-!” before it was harshly clipped.

“I have your friend's air supply cut for as long as this call lasts. Do you know how long Paul, here, can hold his breath? He’s a singer so I’d think it’d be a good amount of time. But humans have their limits and he’s not exactly in mint condition.”

“Fine. Just tell me.” George tried not to shout but it was proving difficult. A hand went to his back, gently gripping his shoulder. He turned to find it was Brian again, trepidation and empathy pouring from him. An unsteady breath managed its way through George’s throat. He felt like a kid in need of reassurance from his dad. He just wanted to hug Brian. Pretend that would make it better. He settled for just having Brian hold his shoulder for a little bit longer

“So direct. Good on you.” The man hummed for a moment, frying George’s nerves. “Yes. My conditions. You see, there was a change of power. What’s a good kidnapping without some infighting, you know? Anyways, the plans have changed and I’d like to propose we go over the demands, though you won't know a difference, I guess. Truly a pity for you all not to see how dull ol’ Zero’s plan was in comparison. Anyways, I’ll be needing you all on your best behavior. My plans are pretty straight forward- money drop offs and all. But you and your little team will have some… choices to make.”

George was biting his tongue through the whole speech, fearful of dragging out the affair any longer than the man obviously wanted to. “What do you mean ‘choices’? Sick bastard.”

“Now, now,” the man chastised in a nonchalant tone. “No need to state the obvious at me. One of your friends here actually said something similar. It’s made me think. You know, I’m well aware of my… strange desires. They’ve been a constant in my life. I simply choose to express them how I please, shall we say. I don’t like to hold back. It probably has something to do with childhood, if you ask a therapist.” He was talking nonsense. “ I find that it’s an interesting way to bring in balance and well,... Oh, but not to bore you with my philosophy. We have so much time to talk later. Now, I would like you to have 150,000 for each of your missing Beatles. That’s in US dollars. I trust your queer little pet Jew can figure the conversion easily enough.”

The plastic of the phone creaked as his grip on the phone tightened. He bit down on the inside of his cheek as he wondered how it was possible to want to maul a single person so badly. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You, yourself, will also be the only one permitted to retrieve the money. No one else is to leave the house. Take Lennon’s Rolls Royce to your bank, get the money, and go directly back to Kentwood. If you don’t do exactly that- nothing more and nothing less- one of them will pay the price.” 

“Okay.” 

George sealed his lips, waiting impatiently for the man to speak again or to just hang up. A lifetime passed before a laugh cut through the silence, followed by the rustling of paper.

“Little Julian looks so cozy in his blue pajamas, doesn’t he? The frilly ends aren’t my style but, hey.” The line clicked and died before George could even process what he said. 

He hit the phone to the receiver and whipped around. Bewildered and confused, he scanned over Julian’s blue pajamas and white frills. Ringo and Brian were asking him questions but he only rushed to the windows and pulled the curtains together.


End file.
